Page 27 of Orc’s Redemption (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss #35)

27

RANI

T he outer edge of the Zmaj compound rises ahead, a looming wall of stone shaped into a tight, unforgiving maze.

Zmaj scouts lead the way, responding with quick calls when the guards spot our approach. Khiara walks stiffly at my side, every movement betraying his frustration and barely contained anger.

We navigate through the angled barriers until the guards stop us with their dark glowers. I wait, letting them talk to the scouts, without saying anything. Eventually I hope to win them over, to establish trust between our peoples, but that is a far flung future from the now.

I tighten my grip on the proof hidden beneath my cloak—a reclaimed sigil, once given to the Urr’ki King by the first Zmaj emissaries. A symbol of the fragile peace our peoples once shared.

I had believed it lost forever, torn from my neck when the Shaman rose to power. But Janara pressed it into my hands with a fierce whisper:

“If this doesn’t convince him... nothing will.”

I left with only Khiara at my side, slipping away before dawn to avoid notice. Now I return with a symbol and one last gamble; that the Zmaj Al’fa will listen when I speak. That he will remember that once there was peace. Before the generations of war. I do not know, for sure, that the Zmaj keep their history like we do. They are… alien and strange.

Exotic. Enticing.

I quickly bring those thoughts to heel.

Khiara and I raise our hands as the guards approach.

One mutters something I don’t catch; the other stares at me with wide, distrustful eyes. Khiara stiffens when a guard pats him down, bristling like a coiled predator.

When the Zmaj steps toward me, Khiara growls low in his throat.

“She is a Queen,” he warns, voice like stone cracking.

“She will not be armed,” the guard retorts coolly.

“I’m expected,” I say, cool and even.

That’s not true. No one knows I’m coming, yet at least, but the guard hesitates, looking at the three scouts who accompanied us. The leader of that group shrugs and gives a half nod. He looks back at me frowning, then shrugs too.

“Fine,” he says. “If she stabs someone it’s not my fault.”

“It will be fine,” the scout says. “The Al’fa sent her on this mission.”

“Well enough, go,” the guard says, turning his back and resuming his station.

The scouts lead the way. Khiara and I follow. It’s late. The Zmaj mimic day and night much as we did in the city, extinguishing the overhead torches until the cavern dims, though never fully dark. True darkness would invite the monsters that dwell beneath the mountain.

I’m glad that we arrived now, when there are fewer judging eyes. A few patrols cast quick glances, recognize us, then move on. Soon enough we are crossing the sand and dirt of the arena. As central to the Zmaj compound as much as it is to their culture.

They worship strength as if physical prowess alone is the only traits a leader must have. Which explains them almost completely. Their focus is on prowess in battle. If brute strength were all the Al’fa possessed, he would be easy to manipulate.

But he is not.

He is shrewd, calculating, mercurial—refusing to commit until he must, always keeping his options open.

The tunnel under the balcony is empty. A single torch illuminates it as we march along. Only one of the scouts remained with us, escorting us to the Al’fa’s office. It occurs to me that I do not know where his personal chamber is. He, of course, knows where mine is, since he assigned it to me. That hardly seems fair.

“Wait inside,” the scout says. I nod and move towards the door while he holds the leather door aside. When Khiara moves to enter first he puts his hand on his chest. “Not you.”

“You won’t st?—”

I place my hand on Khiara’s arm, stopping him from finishing his protest. His head jerks sharply to me.

“It is fine,” I say. “You should report to your brother and Vapas. Your mate will be worried.”

“My Queen, you are my duty,” he says.

“Yes, my warrior,” I agree. “And you are duty bound to obey. Now go. I am as safe here as I am anywhere.”

Khiara growls low and harsh, a sound of pure protest, before shooting a glare at the Zmaj and marching away. The Zmaj waits until I walk through the door and drops the leather back into place.

The chamber is empty. I scan the room expecting him to be here despite the hour, but I am alone. I walk over to the table and study the scale model of the Zmaj compound. It is an impressive piece of art. I circle the table, studying it from angles I had no chance to explore before.

I’m not sure why they made it, but it is beautiful in a strange, self-aggrandizing kind of way. Almost it seems to scream look at us, look at what we’ve done. Their compound is built upon the blood and tears of my people. That, I hope, is the past.

We cannot change the past, but we can learn from it, my father always said that.

My father once dreamed of peace, but time and blood hardened hearts on both sides. After his death, we lost two more cities, until only Home remained. It was in the ruins of our once great civilization that the Shaman sank his claws.

A shift in the air warns me before I see him. He steps into the chamber, a living statue carved from war and fury. Seeming bigger. Broader across the shoulders, but tension is written into every line of his body.

Every inch of him is the Al’fa.

His gaze lands on me and he stops. For one heartbeat, he says nothing.

“You returned.”

“I have,” I reply.

A flicker of something crosses his face—relief? Anger? Desire? I can’t tell. He steps forward slowly, until we’re nearly eye to eye. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, but I don’t look away.

“I didn’t think you would,” he says, voice low. “That, perhaps, you would flee to your city. Turn your back on me.”

“I was never yours to turn my back on,” I say, stepping even closer. “And I never fled. I went to do what you asked of me.”

His jaw tightens. He keeps a distance between us. A hand’s width but the tension in the room is increasing. I watch his chest, rising and falling faster.

“You went to die.”

“I went to save my people.”

The silence between us crackles. Every breath between us feels too loud. Slowly, I reach into the folds of my cloak and pull out the sigil.

“My General, Janara, lives. And he commands more than mere ghosts in the tunnels. He brought me this.”

I extend my closed fist, turning it over, and then opening it to reveal the pendant. The metal gleams dully against my skin, heavy with history and hope. I offer it to him. The Al’fa doesn’t take it. His gaze drops to the artifact, then jumps back to my face.

“Is this what you risked your life for? This is the proof you bring me? A pendant?”

“No,” I whisper. “This is what I earned for risking it.”

He steps closer and my breath catches. He takes the sigil from my hand. His fingers brushing against my palm and I feel the shudder run through him. He stares at the old metal seal like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve.

“I know what this is,” he says after a long pause. “This was thought destroyed, lost years and years ago.”

“It wasn’t. It was taken from me by the Shaman. Janara acquired it and kept it hidden. He saved it for someone worthy.” I don’t move. “Someone who could convince the Zmaj to once again listen.”

His gaze snaps back to mine.

“You assume I will listen.”

I smile. It’s not a kind one.

“I assume nothing. I am showing you what you asked. I brought you not only proof that my people would obey me, but also a symbol of peace. I note that you haven’t crushed it yet.”

He growls softly, low in his throat, the sound barely contained.

“You came back full of fire,” he mutters. “That’s dangerous.”

“Only if you intend to burn,” I reply, voice soft but unyielding.

Another beat of silence. Then he gestures sharply.

“Come. Not here.”

I follow. This isn’t just politics anymore—it’s war. And it’s personal. He leads me to the inner chamber. Once again, I stand in the room where I knelt. This time, I’m not going down on my knees. He paces the perimeter like a caged beast. I let him.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he says finally.

“Why?” I ask. “Because it makes things complicated for you?”

He whirls around. His tail slaps the ground, wings snapping open with a sudden crack.

“Because,” he snarls, voice low and rough, “I can’t think straight when you’re near.”

My heart stutters. It feels like a void opened between us, one that has a gravitational pull, drawing me towards him. I stiffen, holding myself in place, not giving in to the raging feelings and thoughts that have no place in a negotiation with my peoples very existence on the line.

“That’s your weakness, not mine,” I say, carefully keeping my voice neutral so as not to betray the storm happening in my head and in my core.

He stalks towards me. Slow and deliberate. I refuse to move. I stiffen, refusing to be prey in his lair. I will not flinch before the storm.

“You think this is just about a trinket and pretty words?” he growls. “You think because you bring me one scrap of proof that I’ll forget what your people did?”

“No,” I say quietly. “I think you remember it all too well. I think you use it to justify the walls you’ve built around your heart.”

He freezes. Fury flares in his eyes. But beneath it… something else. Pain. Loss.

“I have lost too much , ” he says. “My people have died in this war, how am I supposed to forgive that?”

“You’ve lost, I do not deny it, but I have lost too. More even. I already admitted to you that we have lost this war. I admit surrender, to you.” I step closer. “And yet, I came back.”

Our breath mingles. Close. Intimate.

“I hate that I want you,” he growls.

“Then stop fighting me.”

His hand slams against the wall beside my head. The breadth of him surrounds me.

“You are infuriating.”

“And you,” I whisper, “are scared.”

The words strike like a lash. He snarls, but doesn’t move away.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. You pretend to lead without doubts, but they are eating you alive.”

He leans in, so close his lips brush my temple when he speaks.

“And what would you have me do?”

“Open the door. Let the resistance help. Let me help.”

His hand lifts, almost to touch my face, but he pulls back at the last second, fist clenching at his side.

“If I do this… if I let you in…”

“We might survive,” I finish for him. “Or we might not. But you will have tried.”

Another long silence. His eyes flicker to my lips. Then back to my eyes.

“I should hate you.”

“You probably do.”

He laughs, bitter and broken. I touch his arm. Slowly. Lightly.

“But that doesn’t change what’s between us.”

He catches my wrist. Not hard. But firm.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispers.

“Then don’t do it alone.”

His eyes search mine. Something flickers in him. Not surrender, not yet, but the first crack in the wall. He releases me and takes a step back.

“Go. I need to think.”

I don’t move.

“You need to decide, Al’fa . Time is running out.”

He nods once, sharply. We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment then I leave him standing there, the sigil burning in his hand—too hot to hold, yet impossible to release.

I don’t look back.

But I feel his gaze branded into my skin, all the way back to my room.